


Work It

by firstlightofeos



Category: X-Men: First Class (2011) - Fandom
Genre: Alcohol, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Canon Disabled Character, Lapdance, M/M, Party
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-06-11
Updated: 2013-06-11
Packaged: 2017-12-14 15:46:21
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,587
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/838604
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/firstlightofeos/pseuds/firstlightofeos
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>From Texts From Last Night:<br/><i>Last thing I remember was you straddling a guy in a wheelchair on the dance floor.</i></p>
            </blockquote>





	Work It

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Unforgotten](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Unforgotten/gifts).



> This is, uh, based on a real-life conversation I was involved in. The fact that I actually wrote and posted it is all [**unforgotten**](http://archiveofourown.org/users/unforgotten)'s fault. She's the one who found the TFLN that serves as the summary, too. So. <3, darling.

Charles finishes his second drink of the night and, as he contemplates the inside of his empty red cup, immediately wants another. He eyes the crowd surrounding the dance floor speculatively, and then decides that yes, another drink is absolutely worth trying to circumnavigate the drunk, writhing mass of bodies dominating the space between him and the drinks table. It's been one of those weeks, the one where his thesis research experiments didn't work or, if they did, kept him in the lab until the wee hours of the night. Getting drunk isn't just a desire; it's _mandatory_.

Charles carefully plots out his course, and then wheels himself across the room, careful to avoid people's feet, mentally nudging them out of his way when they veer too close. He reaches the table without incident, but not unscathed—several people grope him indiscriminately, but then turn back to their previous groups or partners when he doesn’t reciprocate; that’s not what he’s looking for tonight. He sighs to himself as he rolls over to the end of the table that is designated for hard liquor, eyes the selection, and decides that clearly, it is a Stoli kind of night.

He's just reaching for the bottle when someone reaches over him and grabs it away from him.

"Hey!" he exclaims, whirling around angrily to face the jerk who stole his booze. He comes face-to-face with a guy who is both unbelievably hot, and clearly drunk off his arse. He probably shouldn't be pouring himself a messy shot of vodka, but it's not Charles's job to police him.

Instead, Charles reaches out his hand and says, again, "Hey!"

"He-ey," the guy slurs, squinting at Charles. After a long moment, he grins, and then puts the bottle back on the table and shakes Charles's outstretched hand. "'m'Erik," he says.

"Charles," Charles replies shortly, tugging his hand from Erik's—it takes a few tries; Erik’s grip is impressively firm. He grabs the vodka from the table, and pours himself a generous helping, conscious of Erik's gaze on him the whole time.

Charles tosses back the shot in one go, then lowers it and turns to glare at Erik.

"What?" he says, maybe a little aggressive. Erik's unwavering focus is rather unnerving, and his mind's clouded enough by drink that Charles isn't sure what he's staring at—but he thinks he can make an educated guess, and he is really _not_ in the mood.

And, of course, Erik says, slowly: "You're...pretty. Really...really pretty."

Charles rolls his eyes and laughs, just a little irritated. But at the same time, he can silently admit that he's a bit flattered, if for no other reason than that Erik himself is so damn attractive. If Erik were even a little less drunk, Charles might reconsider his current anti-sex sentiment, and pull out his best lines in an attempt to convince Erik to find an abandoned corner, or bathroom, or bedroom. But. Well. 

And then, just as Charles is trying to think of what he can say to Erik in response, a similarly attractive brunette comes over, wraps her hand around Erik's arm, whispers something in his ear, and drags him back over to the dance floor. 

Charles shrugs and sighs, pouring himself another (few) shot(s) and cradling his drink as he navigates his way back to his corner. It wasn’t like anything was going to happen.

***

Ten minutes later, Charles has finished his drink, and is feeling somewhat pleasantly buzzed. He’s once again debating getting a refill—he'd hang out closer to the drinks table, but he usually ends up feeling awkward and in the way, and he's more than once ended up with drinks spilled all over him.

His decision is taken out of his hands, though, when someone plops heavily onto his lap. Startled, Charles drops his (thankfully empty) cup on the ground, and looks up to see…the stunning guy from before—Erik, he remembers—looking down at him.

When he catches Charles looking, Erik beams, his expression somewhat hazy, to the point where Charles isn't sure Erik knows whose lap he's sitting on.

But then Erik slurs, "Charles," and Charles feels an unsolicited thrill run through him, even though Erik's still drunk out of his mind.

"Erik," Charles acknowledges, smiling back. 

"IIIIII'm drunk," Erik says. 

"You _are_ ," Charles laughs. He resists the urge to reach up and run his hands through Erik's hair, though it's practically dying for it. 

And then Erik's hands come to rest on Charles's shoulders, and he grinds his hips down. Charles grabs the armrests of his chair to keep him from doing something rash and stupid like latching his hands around Erik's waist, and bites his lip. He can only barely feel what Erik's doing, but just the sight of Erik's hips and torso undulating is enough to get him more interested than he’s been in...a while, certainly.

Erik rearranges himself, turning to face Charles and swinging his leg around so he's straddling him, and then he grinds down again, in perfect time to the pounding beat emanating from the speakers scattered around the room.

"Erik," Charles breathes. "What are you—"

"You're hot," Erik says simply. "I like it." He raises himself up, then writhes down again, body twisting in a way that Charles can't quite follow. He leans forward, putting his mouth directly next to Charles's ear. "I like _you_." 

Charles shudders.

"Erik—"

"Shh." Erik places a finger to his lips. "Let me, I wanna."

"You want to...what?" Charles asks shakily, knuckles going white on his armrests. 

"Get you hot," Erik says, and then he—maddeningly—pulls back, and stands up. Charles clenches his hands to keep himself from reaching out to drag Erik back onto his lap, and simply watches as Erik turns so his back is to Charles, and then starts dancing, swaying his arse (which is level with Charles's face) back and forth. Charles can't look away as Erik starts feeling himself up, hands sliding all over his body before latching on the hem of his t-shirt and pulling it up, up, all the way up and over his head. 

Charles swallows as the shirt falls to the floor and Erik's naked, muscular back is revealed. He wants to reach out and touch, kiss, bite, something, _anything_ , but he keeps his hands where they are. Then Erik sits back on Charles's lap, sliding himself back, all the way back, until his arse is right up against Charles's crotch. His arms reach back, hands twining together at the nape of Charles's neck, and then Erik starts moving again, his hips rolling and twisting and grinding. 

"Erik…" Charles exhales. 

"Shh," Erik chides him again. He unlinks his fingers, grabs Charles's hands, and places them on his waist. Charles doesn't dare grip, just letting them rest lightly where Erik put them, but then Erik growls. 

"Tighter," he says. Charles complies; Erik makes a contented sound, and then returns his own hands to their original position behind Charles's neck. He resumes his previous...lapdance, there's really no better word for it, though maybe dry-humping might be more accurate, and Charles groans, fingers flexing and unflexing. Erik groans, too, his motions picking up speed until they're very nearly ahead of the beat still pounding through the room. 

This continues for a while, to the point where people have started to stare; Charles, embarrassed, buries his head in Erik's shoulder; Erik doesn't seem to mind, and instead just grinds down with even more force. 

"Charles," he breathes. Charles hisses in response, wishing he were shirtless, too, so he could feel the muscles of Erik's back rubbing against his abs. 

Then Erik repositions himself, so he's facing Charles again, and Charles nearly loses it at the look on Erik's face. It's an expression of pure ecstasy: mouth open as he writhes against Charles, eyes closed, cheeks flushed, head falling back. Charles can't look away—and nor does he really want to. 

"God," Charles breathes, gripping Erik's waist again, tighter this time. 

Erik chuckles. "Sounds good to me." 

He leans forward and kisses Charles, messy, all lips and teeth and tongue, and his desire for Charles burns so brightly that it's clear even through the alcoholic haze settled over his mind. Charles can't help responding, even though the voice in his head keeps reminding him that Erik is drunk, they’re both drunk, he probably shouldn't read anything into this, he might even be taking advantage. 

"Stop it," Erik says, pulling back. 

"Stop what?" Charles says breathlessly.

"Thinking," Erik says, punctuating his statement with another roll of his hips. He kisses Charles again, and then starts kissing his way down Charles's neck. "You're so fucking hot," he says, between kisses. "Can we—"

Charles is about to say no when Erik reaches down and palms his crotch—even with the diminished sensations, the gesture is enough to send whatever remains of Charles’s self-control flying out the window. 

"Yes, okay," Charles gets out, reaching out to squeeze Erik's arse in return. Erik groans. "Where?"

"Not here," Erik says. "Y'r place?" 

Charles blinks, wondering why not Erik's—and then he gets a flash of several flights of stairs, and feels a sudden and unexpected burst of warmth flooding his chest.

"Three houses down," he replies, some of the warmth bleeding into his tone.

"Your place," Erik nods, his speech a little clearer. He steps back off Charles and (miraculously remembering) picks his shirt up off the floor. "C'mon, lessgo." 

Charles grins. "Let's."


End file.
